


Snapshot

by dontcareajot



Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4579467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontcareajot/pseuds/dontcareajot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex is a ball of nervous energy up on stage. He clutches his guitar like a lifeline, seems startled every time he looks up and catches the eye of someone in the audience. He's young- young enough that he's still got spots on his face. His hair is a fluffy, disheveled mess on top of his head and he's sporting a striped polo and baggy jeans like he's not quite sure what <i>fashion</i> is. He stutters endearingly when he addresses the crowd, trips over his words and starts over. His eyes are wide and brown and he moves like he doesn't quite know what he should be doing with his limbs.</p>
<p>He's perfect, and Miles falls in love instantly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snapshot

**Author's Note:**

> Just some short and sweet fluff, dedicated to the lovely and radiant [mybrbie](http://mybrbie.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Happy birthday, Roksana! Apparently I can't even write simple fluff pieces without turning them into AU's so, heads up, Alex is a solo artist and Miles is a photographer.

Alex is a ball of nervous energy up on stage. He clutches his guitar like a lifeline, seems startled every time he looks up and catches the eye of someone in the audience. He's young- young enough that he's still got spots on his face. His hair is a fluffy, disheveled mess on top of his head and he's sporting a striped polo and baggy jeans like he's not quite sure what _fashion_ is. He stutters endearingly when he addresses the crowd, trips over his words and starts over. His eyes are wide and brown and he moves like he doesn't quite know what he should be doing with his limbs.

He's perfect, and Miles falls in love instantly.

Allegedly, Miles is there to take photos of the main act, _not_ the opener, but by the end of Alex's set Miles finds he's taken enough pictures to fill up most of his memory card.

He watches Alex walk off stage through the lens of his camera and contemplates following him. Then the headlining band walks out and Miles is abruptly reminded what he's really there for. So he doesn't follow Alex- but it turns out not to matter. Alex bumps into Miles after the show, anyway- _literally_ bumps into him, nearly spilling Miles' beer in the process. He apologizes eagerly, flutters his hands around Miles' shoulders, blinks several times in the span of a few seconds.

Then he says, “I'm Alex,” and again, “I'm, er, sorry.”

“It's fine,” Miles says, distracted by the way his hair curls at the ends. “It's... I know who you are. Watched you play earlier. You're good, mate.” And he is. He threw himself into the songs, played like it was all he ever wanted to do, sang like the words meant something to him. Miles is sure he wasn't the only one in the audience who felt like they were witnessing something special. The rise of a new star. A little rough around the edges but oh-so-capable of becoming someone- just _someone_. Someone incredible. Someone noteworthy.

Pink creeps over Alex's cheeks. It's lovely. “Thanks. I'm, er, new to it all, kind of, so...”

He trails off. His eyes wander from the top of Miles' head down to his toes and back again. Around them, the murmur of the crowd is dying down as people depart. But Alex seems in no hurry to follow their lead.

“You're the photographer, then?” he asks, eyes flicking back down to the camera settled on a strap around Miles' neck.

Miles runs his finger in absent circles around the shutter button. “I am. Got a few of you, hope you don't mind. I'll delete them if you like.”

“No, no, I- you can send 'em to me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Miles says, softly, and his smile is reflected on Alex's face in silent acknowledgment of what they've just agreed to. The trading of numbers, perhaps, or, at the very least, email addresses. The promise of future contact.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Alex says then- blurts, really, and Miles half expects him to take it back. But he doesn't. His cheeks go even pinker but he waits determinedly for Miles' answer, shoulders hunched like he's bracing himself.

“Already got one,” Miles points out.

“Let me buy you one anyway,” is Alex's swift, sure reply.

“Of course,” Miles says, thinking- _how could I say no, how could anyone say no to that smile_?

Alex turns on his heel, perhaps to lead them back to the bar, but stops to face Miles once again. “Sorry, I never got your name,” he realizes.

“It's Miles. Miles Kane.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Miles,” he says, sounding less and less sheepish by the second. He holds out his hand. Miles takes it and a spark passes between them. Not visible, not tangible, but undeniably there.

“Miles,” Alex says again, voice low, as if testing the name on his tongue.

-

The hotel room is bare bones but still a far sight better than the places Alex is usually forced to stay. A sign of his rising fame, perhaps. In the last year he's gone from playing to maybe a hundred people to at least a thousand every night, and he'd called Miles from London just last week with a bad case of nerves after he got a look at the crowd of five thousand- at that point the largest gig he'd ever played.

“Are they really here for me,” he'd said. No inflection. It had been rhetorical, but Miles had assured him anyway, “Of course they are, love.”

Alex stays busy, but so does Miles. Their paths cross only intermittently, usually by chance, but they always make time for each other. Be it a phone call, a skype session, a text message. Some days the only words they exchange are hastily typed out reminders like, _I miss you_ and _I love you_ and _I'll see you soon_. It's only barely a relationship, and an undefined one at that, but... They make it work. If Miles ever has doubts all he has to do is pick up the phone. Alex always answers when Miles calls, no matter the time of day or night. He's always ready with a soft _hello_ and just hearing his voice brings a smile to Miles' face. That's how he knows this- whatever it is- is real.

Miles is just getting comfortable, shedding his shoes and jacket, when Alex comes in. He's grinning, giddy, and when Miles stands to greet him he sweeps Miles into a hug, no hesitation.

“That was fucking amazing,” he says, lips brushing Miles' neck. He pulls back, then, holds Miles at arms length. Looks him up and down like he's checking for differences.

Alex hasn't changed. Not really. His hair is different, longer. It makes him look older, more like a proper rockstar. Right now there are strands of it sticking to his forehead. He's sweaty, skin shining and cheeks flushed. Miles watches as a droplet falls from the ends of his hair and slides down his chest, disappearing beneath a disheveled button-down. He smells like faded cologne, cigarette smoke, and musk. It's a heady smell.

“Did you come straight here?” Miles asks, and only then realizes he's clutching at Alex the same way Alex is clutching at him, hands around his biceps.

“Course,” Alex says and gives Miles a look like he's daft for asking.

Miles can still feel the energy from the gig running through him. Alex is practically buzzing under his hands, putting off heat. All Miles can do is kiss him.

At this point they've shared many kisses but each one is as exciting as the first. That spark still exists between them. It's addicting.

“How long are you staying?” Alex asks, already breathless. Miles slides his hand down to Alex's chest, can feel Alex's heart thumping wildly beneath his palm.

Miles doesn't know, so he doesn't answer. He pulls Alex in by his lapels for another kiss.

-

Alex performs a sold out gig at the O2 arena. Miles watches from the wings, and when Alex is done he pulls Miles to him, kisses his cheek, his jaw, his lips- in full view of everyone.

Well, not everyone. Not the crowd of thousands that paid to see him play. But everyone backstage. Everyone who works with Alex. Everyone who matters, or close enough.

Miles means to congratulate Alex, to gush about the performance, but what comes out instead is, “There's no one else, right?”

Miles has always done them both the favor of not asking. But Alex doesn't seem taken aback by the question. Instead, he laughs, breathless, and shakes his head. “No- no, of course not.”

It's enough.

-

They fight, sometimes.

No one is perfect.

-

Miles doesn't hear it from Alex first. That's what really bothers him. Instead, he finds out when Alex is asked about it on goddamn national television.

As usual, they're miles apart. On opposite sides of the country. But of course Miles tuned in to watch Alex's interview, stilted and awkward as they usually are. He's doing well this time, smiling more than usual, almost managing to look like he gives a damn. Miles is smiling, too, charmed by Alex's new haircut, the crinkles by his eyes, the way he twists his ring round and round his pinky like maybe he's thinking of Miles just the way Miles is thinking of him. Miles is smiling right up until the interviewer says, “So, Alex, I hear you'll be leaving us soon. Moving to LA, aren't you?”

Alex freezes for an almost imperceptible moment, smile faltering. “Er, yeah. Yes. Sort of.”

“Sort of?” the interviewer presses.

“I mean, I love it here,” Alex clarifies. “And I'm sure I'll still be... around, you know. Like, it'll always be home, I suppose. But I am trading my place in London for one in LA.”

Miles turns the telly off. He stares at the black screen, thinking. He picks up his phone, types _why didn't you tell me_ and then erases it.

He saves that particular question for the next night. He shows up midway through Alex's gig- late accidentally, though he feels as guilty as if he'd done it on purpose. Alex probably thinks he did it on purpose, after Miles left his texts and phone calls unanswered. It was work that kept Miles, not spite, however. Watching Alex perform is one of Miles' very favorite things in the world, second only to photographing him.

Maybe Miles is the only one who can tell, having seen Alex play countless gigs and in various states of well-being, but something is off with him. There's a hesitancy to his playing, an uncharacteristic wavering to his voice. He's still amazing, of course, and it's such a miniscule difference that no one else seems to notice. No one but Miles, who worries- _knows_ he's the cause.

Alex regards him with a certain amount of wariness as he walks offstage to the cheers and cries of fifteen thousand audience members. He holds himself like he's expecting the worst. But he still imbues Miles' name with so much fondness it makes something in Miles' chest loosen and warm.

“When were you going to tell me?” Miles asks, dispensing with the pleasantries, standing close enough that he doesn't have to yell. “I know we travel a lot but- I _live_ in London, Alex. And LA is- is really fucking far away from London.”

“I know,” Alex says. “I know, I were gonna tell you after...” He visibly shakes himself. His cheeks are flushed from the heat of the stage lights and his t-shirt is sticking to him in ways that draw Miles' eye, but he's brought back to focus when Alex takes his hands. “Nothing's final yet, love. I dunno how that story even got out since I haven't signed on any dotted line.”

“Then why...?”

“I need to move out there for work. It's- a good opportunity. But I told 'em I won't go unless...” He pauses, clears his throat. His grip on Miles' hands loosens like he's going to let go but Miles holds tighter, won't let him. He stares at Miles' shoes as he continues, quieter, “Unless you go with me.”

Miles blinks. “To... LA?”

“Er, yeah.” Somehow, Alex's flush deepens. “I don't- I dunno. I don't think I want it to be _my_ house, this time, eh? I want it to be ours. If that's what you want, too.”

“Yes,” Miles says, instantaneously sure. Envisioning warm, sleepy mornings waking up in _their_ bed and cuddles on _their_ settee and parties on _their_ patio and meals cooked in _their_ kitchen. Christmases spent in their very own house with their families. Best of all, it'll mean more time together.

“Really?” Alex asks, sounding surprised. But pleasantly so. “What about London? Your flat? I know you love that place-”

“Doesn't matter,” Miles interrupts. “I love you more.”

“That simple, eh?” Alex wonders, features rearranging themselves into something resembling awe.

“That simple,” Miles assures him.

Alex's glee spills over into a kiss.

-

“I was just thinking,” Alex says, and Miles hums, content and languid beside him. The sun is just starting to break in through the blinds. Miles doesn't care to disentangle himself from Alex long enough to adjust them.

“I were thinking,” Alex says again. “About that very first night. The night we met.”

“What about it?” Miles asks, turning his head just enough to plant a kiss on Alex's collarbone.

“I saw you in the crowd, you know. Did I ever tell you? I saw you out there just before the lights came on. Your hair was a mess, your shirt was buttoned wrong, and you kept fidgeting with your camera like you were nervous.”

“I _was_ nervous,” Miles recalls. “One of me first paid jobs, that.”

“You were lovely,” Alex says, wistful. “And I fell in love instantly.”

“What a _line_ ,” Miles complains, hiding his blush against Alex's shoulder. But he knows Alex can hear the grin in his voice.

“Aw, love.” Alex coaxes Miles into looking at him with a gentle tug to his hair. He brushes his fingers over the line of Miles' cheekbone. “Happy anniversary,” he whispers like a secret.

“Five years,” Miles breathes, amazed. “Aren't you tired of me yet?”

“Never,” Alex says, and kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is over [here](http://dontcareajot.tumblr.com) in case you wondered. <3


End file.
